


I Think We're Alone Now

by Bramblepelt



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Death, Grieving, Incredibly vague background Gladnis, M/M, Very quick mention of alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29203935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bramblepelt/pseuds/Bramblepelt
Summary: A very short ficlet about finding comfort and strength to keep going
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	I Think We're Alone Now

**Author's Note:**

> I said on twitter, "the scene in Umbrella Academy S1 where they're all dancing together and its cathartic and everything. Ok that but FFXV. The boys/Iris/Cor returning to the citadel 1st time since the funeral maybe and Prompto finds an old CD he and Noct listened to when they were teens." And it wouldn't leave my brain so here have it.

“I don’t want to do this.” Prompto sighs, taking in the ruins of what was once the center of Insomnia. He feels a strong hand grip his shoulder.

“None of us want to do this, Prom.” Gladio says, taking a deep breath. The last time they were here, they had all felt a brush with death over and over again. And one of them took death’s hand and left them behind. Looking upon the crumbled remnants of their youth only brings the sight of his pale face, the feel of his cold hand, the sound of a choked scream echoing in the throne room. 

Nobody wants to relive this.

But it’s been several weeks since they laid their King to rest. Rebuilding has begun. The last of the loyal can only stand guard at a monument to ruin for so long, and soon those who would seek to rummage through the pieces of what once was will have their day. 

So they have to do this now. Closure, catharsis, one last trip through nostalgia, a vacation in misery, call it what you will. They have to take one last walk through these halls. Hear the echoes. Watch the shadows.

“The longer we draw this out, the worse it will sting when it ends.” Ignis offers with a slight waver in his otherwise composed voice.

Prompto nods. Now or never. The three of them make the first move, something most likely allowed by the others present in a sign of respect. Iris and Talcott are close behind, yet not entirely eager to return to the home they had fled from in terror ten years ago. Cor takes up the rear, accompanied by one of his men who frets over Cor’s still healing injuries. He insists on escorting the Marshal everywhere.

Ignis, though, requires no escort and knows exactly how to make his way to where he wants to be: the council chambers. Where he spent so many long hours listening with intent, taking extensive notes, studying and focusing himself into a pillar of political perfection. And now for what?

He counts with his hand, sliding across the tops of dust covered office chairs. Seven, eight, nine, there. His seat. Second from the King. One day it was meant to be the next one over, to the right of his Majesty’s. Right next to Noct. Never to be. Ignis only feels a connection with this seat though, and everything it represented for his station. His purpose. His life. He does not much feel like sitting in it again.

Gladio, Iris, and Talcott go home. What little is left of it. 

Talcott finds the door to his childhood bedroom closed. He hesitates. If he opens it, his memory of that little haven of himself may change for good. As it stands, it’s a child’s bed with cactuar bed sheets. It’s stuffed animals and little figurines of creatures of all types. There’s a poster of a comic book superhero on the wall. There’s a framed photo of him, even younger, smiling in the arms of his parents, his grandfather. If he leaves that door closed he won’t have to reckon with what’s become of it.

Iris finds herself pulled into the kitchen. She feels the ghosts of so many breakfasts spent here with her family. Chided by her nanny for not sitting like a lady. Listening to her father recount every dull detail of his time spent with Regis the previous day. Those days Gladio would sneak Iris an extra cookie under the table, and when she was older, the cookies she would sneak to Talcott.

Gladio stands in his father’s study. A place he once viewed with awe. Book shelves packed with combat theory, military history, tactical guidebooks, all still there somehow. He runs his fingers over the spines, the tactical memory of doing the same so long ago flooding him with barely suppressed tears. His hand stops suddenly, one of these books feels different from the rest. 

It’s fiction, a story of a young man sent to war expecting glory who comes home disillusioned. Gladio pivots the book from its place on the top shelf with one finger. Sliding it out, he can hear a sound and realizes he knows why this book feels different. He sets the book down on the desk, opens to the middle to find a carefully carved square within the pages. Hidden inside, a glass bottle with a brown liquid inside. Limited reserve. Barely touched. 

Gladio closes the book again, and can only smile knowing there were still pieces of the man’s life yet to be discovered and understood.

Cor wanders a bit, unsure of what else to do with himself. There is a lifetime of history in these walls. Three Kings took their last breath here, and still he stands alive. The thought has not stopped torturing him since the break of dawn.

He comes to the doors of the old training hall. Years of his life were spent there. Training up young adults into warriors. Putting his heart and soul into the development of each one of them. He can remember their names, even the ones who did not make it to the end. Every one left an impression on him, teaching a new lesson. Speak softer. Grip tighter. Pick yourself back up, even when everything seems pointless. 

“Wait here.” He says to his escort. The boy moves to object, and Cor is tired of being treated like a frail old man in need of a nursemaid. He doesn’t mean to snap, but it almost comes out that way. “I’ll be fine.” He’s not even that old. Fifty five is nothing. Although it is much, much older than he ever expected to get. He could do without the joint stiffness at least.

He trained a boy into a man here, and watched Gladio surpass his own achievements. Over there is where Gladio, barely old enough to hold a wooden sword, charged at him with all the confidence of a garula. And over there, he held that child and let him cry on his shoulder, when Gladio felt he could not express sorrow over his mother’s passing anywhere else. This hall held so much of what made Cor’s life worth living, and now he’s struggling to find a way to keep it going as this hall lies in ruin.

Prompto lacks the history the others have here. Truly, he would feel more connection elsewhere. A burnt down apartment complex or the wreckage of his high school. But what the Citadel lacks in personal history it makes up for in meaning. He goes to his best friend’s room. Not enough time, too few days, spent here. The comics are still here, although in separate pages scattered all about. The video game consoles are trashed, unusable, but the memories of the two of them staying up all night together remain. He stands by the broken window where he had his first kiss.

He remembers the last day they were all here, packing up Noct’s childish possessions, preparing for him to return with a wife and start acting the part of an adult. But Prompto had known better.

He knew, from his own communications with Luna, that she was very interested in seeing his comics and playing a video game for the first time. He knew the three of them were looking forward to spending a lot of time goofing off and just being themselves here one day.

That would have been nice.

Prompto finds, amongst the rubble, a CD player. It was enormous, and he remembers the speakers being way too loud even when turned down as low as possible. He remembers the night Noct put on a CD and turned the volume up a bit, just enough to drown out any noises the two of them might make. He checks the battery housing, and feels shocked the batteries inside aren’t corroded and wrecked after all this time. He tries turning it on, and it works. Somehow. There’s still a CD inside. He thinks he remembers what it might be, and pushes play.

The beat to a pop song, one that was old even back then, starts blaring. It’s so loud, but he turns it up anyway before crossing to the other end of the room. He can feel the tears welling up as he imagines what it was like the last time he heard this song. Noct’s hand on his waist, their foreheads touching. Just dancing around like idiots. Just moving together. 

He smiles, open mouth, and laughs into his tears with the memories dancing around him. He can’t help but move with them.

Iris hears the music, muted but recognizable. The teen girl’s voice bellows through and the tune is infectious. Gripping the chair, she sways back and forth, remembering her teen years full of innocence and hope and having the most embarrassing crush. Her cheeks flush and she feels like she’s fifteen again.

Cor swears he cannot be hearing what he’s hearing. He looks up to the ceiling, across a bit. He knows the direction that sound is coming from, and he takes a guess at why it’s playing. Cor walks to the doors, looks at the boy and tells him to wait there a little longer. He closes the doors behind him. And in that space, alone, where once he pushed the limits of his physical and mental abilities, Cor starts to dance.

Talcott can’t remember the last time he heard such happy music. There was music, of course, during the long night. People found instruments and played around bonfires. They played ballads of warriors falling in battle. They played songs of longing for what was, but so few of hope for what would come. He heard one song in particular often, that spread quickly. The song was slow and sorrowful, and told of the narrator’s disbelief that things were as they were now. Filled with remorse for everything they took for granted, and hopelessness that they would ever have it back.

But this. He’s never heard this song before, but the electronic beats and the girl singing about being a kid who wants to run about and fall in love and get into trouble with her partner.... He’s never heard this song but it pulls at so much nostalgia for him. He takes off his hat, runs a hand through his hair, and remembers what it felt like to dance to something that made him want to.

Gladio laughs, hearing the teen pop ballad mumbling into the study. He can just imagine, clearly, his father walking to Iris’ room and demanding she turn that silly noise down. He taps along, remembering the words. This song was sweet, all about young love and the thrill of keeping it a secret. He could certainly relate. Gladio smirks down, tapping his fingers on the book that hid his father’s little secret. He has to guess every Shield in their line had one or another. He wonders if Ignis can hear this music wherever he’s decided to go. 

In fact, Ignis can. And for a moment, he almost feels indignant at the impropriety of it all. Perhaps if he could see the situation around himself, he would feel differently. In his mind, everything is as it once was, albeit much more empty. In his mind, the council could convene at any moment, and the racket echoing through the ruins of the Citadel would cause quite the stir. 

For a moment, Ignis wishes that could happen. Let the old geezers feel offense at the idea of a little fun. The humor of the scene fills him with a surge of energy. Ignis finds his shoulders moving back and forth in time to the music. He doesn’t know if anyone else can see and frankly, right now, he does not care.

Prompto is full on crying, but it’s tears of joy. What he had, what they had, will never be destroyed. Maybe their bodies, their homes, their possessions, everything that one can see and touch is gone or broken. But these memories of the warmth and laughter, these thoughts of two dumb kids finding moments of happiness, stealing little pieces of comfort in each other’s arms. These things are eternal. No Gods or prophecy or demons can ever kill this. 

Prompto is holding himself, arms wrapped tight against his chest, and he’s still dancing. And he’ll never stop dancing. He knows Noct would want him to keep going, keep dancing, keep living. And no matter what happens next, he will.

They all will.

**Author's Note:**

> @pandalots on twitter


End file.
